


Territory

by ZhoraKys



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, First Time, Gen, Political Intrigue, Pon Farr, Romulan/Vulcan historical wanking, Terrorism, Violent Sex, Young!Romulan Commander, Young!Spock, background Sarek/Amanda, pre-Starfleet Spock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-03-08 08:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13454490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZhoraKys/pseuds/ZhoraKys
Summary: When a respected admiral visits the Romulan territories on Vulcan, a 19-year old Spock accompanies his father to pay diplomatic dues. Their peaceful mission goes awry when a dust storm strands the party at a Romulan-controlled research station.Spock's Vulcan biology also begins to take hold for the first time, putting him, Sarek, and the admiral's daughter in an uncomfortable position.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Enterprise Incident is one of my favourite episodes of TOS, but I always thought it would be more interesting/make more sense if Spock and the Commander had some sort of history. 
> 
> So, like a maniac, I made up an alternate universe wherein some Vulcans who opposed Surak's teachings, rather than up and leave, stayed on Vulcan and sequestered themselves into a separate anti-reform nation-state. Once Romulus was established as a world, its leaders chose to reconnect with the territories on Vulcan and annex them as part of the Romulan Empire.
> 
> Thus, Spock meets the Romulan Commander when they're both confused teenagers and they share some emotionally and sexually-charged moments. I occasionally have a fever dream where this leads into a Kirk/Spock pre-slash academy AU but that's a long way off.
> 
> (A lot of the notions of Romulan culture [like the matriarchal structure and the Commander's name] have been borrowed from Sondra Marshak and Myrna Culbreath's excellent novels The Price of the Phoenix and The Fate of the Phoenix.)

“Father… I do not understand.”

Spock looked blankly at Sarek. The expanse of their family home seemed to widen between them, three feet of cold, polished floor becoming a vast gulf.

“Spock.” Sarek said the name with some effort. “My son. You are 19 years old. Your entrance exams to the science academy draw near. It is only logical that you gain some diplomatic experience to draw from in your studies. Such experience will be useful for gaining acceptance into the Fleet.”

“I am to be trained in the sciences, father. I do not understand how diplomacy factors in.”

“If you do not understand how diplomacy factors into all dealings with the Federation, Spock, then it is all the more clear that you should accompany me.”

Spock did not have a response to that. The floor felt hard under his bare feet, and the entire house seemed to hang in suspended animation, suffused with the still, hot air of a Vulcan midsummer afternoon. He hadn’t seen his mother since breakfast, and he now guessed that she had barricaded herself in her greenhouse to avoid listening to this altercation. 

“Very well father. If you believe it to be advantageous.”

*****

Spock sat quietly in the back of the family cruiser, watching Sarek hold a hushed conversation with his primary advisor, a man named Setek.

“Doyen” and “admiral” were uttered several times. Then, “unwilling.” 

“Instead.” 

“Daughter.”

The conversation was cut short by a weather alarm at the cruiser’s helm. A minor dust storm half an hour away. Sarek and Setek took their seats while the pilot set the course. The engines rattled into life and they were underway. 

Trying to avoid his father’s eyes, Spock stared out the window, allowing the passing red scenery to lull him into something close to meditation. He should be studying now, but he felt restless, which was disturbing enough to create a vicious cycle, a sustained lack of focus. Perhaps he should attempt to meditate in earnest.

He instead made an attempt at reevaluating his circumstances. He had never been to the Romulan Territories, and this could indeed prove an excellent opportunity to become acquainted with a foreign culture. Sarek had been correct: it was something he would have to get used to if he were to pursue admission to the Fleet. 

Starfleet. 

The odds of him being the only Vulcan in the academy were quite good -- 987,659:1, in fact. 

Of course, Romulans were only very slightly removed, at least in physical terms, from Vulcans. And there were blood Vulcans living in the Territories as well, though the anti-reformists may as well have been Romulans, culturally. 

Yet, for all the scientific opportunity this trip presented, Spock could not seem to rid himself of this nagging feeling of apprehension. Anxiety was not a Vulcan trait. It was more logical to assume that he was simply experiencing a reaction to the tangible risks that entry into Romulan and anti-reform territory would inevitably present to a follower of Surak.  
As peaceful as the Territories had been, for so long, and as much as this was a mission of basic diplomacy, the Romulans were dangerous.

Spock stared out the window and imagined his mother watering her garden.

*****

There was no recognizable shift in the terrain when the pilot announced that they had entered Romulan skies. 

“ _Nemaiyo_ , T’pre.” Sarek spoke in an even tone. He turned to Spock. “We are to be greeted by admiral Votuhk. Please stay silent and do as I do when we meet him.”

“Yes father.”

Spock had heard a little about Votuhk. He had been born in the Territories but traveled to Romulus as a teenager, where he remained to earn his rank - partly by being taken as husband by the Doyen, the female leader on Romulus. His presence now on Vulcan was purported to be a non-oppositional attempt at drumming up loyalty among civilians, isolated from the rest of the empire as they were. 

Spock had gathered that there was some concern among the reformed Vulcan leadership that Votuhk’s mission was one of subterfuge. 

He watched as the scenery, which had smoothed with the altitude, began to sharpen and take on depth again. The cruiser shuddered slightly as it touched down, coming to a gentle halt on the stretch of red plateau that served as the landing tarmac for the Vulcan embassy.

Spock pulled back from the window when he saw four figures in formal Romulan attire emerge from a green-hued land vehicle that was parked off to the side of the cruiser’s resting spot. 

The Romulan figures stood a few feet away from the cruiser’s ramp as Sarek, Setek, and Spock disembarked in single file. T’Pre stood next to the ramp, glancing warily at the separate parties and fiddling with a control device in her hands. 

“ _Na’shaya_ , Sarek.” A tall, solidly built Romulan stepped forward. He spoke with a heavy accent.

Sarek responded in kind, holding up his left hand in the _ta’al_. Setek was doing the same. Spock followed suit. 

Though their hooded cowls concealed much of their faces, he had noticed that at least one of the Romulans was apparently female. She stood directly beside Votuhk, shorter than him by about six inches but with a sense of stocky power infused in her partially obscured frame. 

Sarek gestured to Setek, and said something partially in Romulan. “ _t’nash-veh, ...auethn._ Setek.” Then to Spock. “ _Heh t’nash-veh sa-fu,_ Spock.”  
Spock stood pin-straight and still as Votuhk removed his hood and raked over the party with black eyes. 

“ _T’nash-veh ko-fu._ ” 

The female Romulan stepped forward to meet her father and removed her hood in kind. She glanced at Spock and flashed a quick smile, an expression that Spock had some difficulty reconciling to her Vulcanoid features. She seemed to note this, her dark eyes flashing with what might have been satisfaction, before looking back toward her father.  
Spock continued to stare for a moment, until Votuhk began to speak again, in Vulcan standard.

“I trust my wife’s message has already reached you, Sarek.”

“Indeed,” Sarek nodded. “It is… unfortunate. But, understandable. She is a woman of great responsibility.” 

“She is. No matter. I will be recording the proceedings of your stay here in the utmost detail so that I can pass it along to her when she returns.” 

“I would expect nothing less, admiral.”

Votuhk nodded, a smile blooming across his severe features. “Come. My security will have your luggage brought to the embassy. Your rooms are prepared.”


	2. Chapter 2

Spock sat gingerly on the low edge of the bed, arms around his knees, waiting for his luggage. He was there no more than five minutes when a chime sounded at the door.

“Come.”

The door to the room slid open as Spock got to his feet. A Romulan man who looked about Spock’s age, perhaps one or two years older, walked in carrying Spock’s stuffed case as if it weighed nothing at all. 

This man, too, wore a hooded cowl -- but something about its design made it less of a coy attempt at formality, and more of a visual indication that his face should be disregarded.

Spock attempted to make eye contact with the Romulan as the stranger deposited his case beside the bed.

“Thank you.”

“I am at your service, Schn T’Gai Spock.” Like Votuhk, the young Romulan spoke in Vulcan with a heavy accent. He kept his head angled conspicuously downward.

“How may I address you?”

“My name is Palix, but if you require anything, simply ask for service over the comm.” Palix gestured with his chin at the touch-screen panel on the wall. 

“Thank you, Palix.”

A long pause followed, in which Palix seemed to continue to avoid meeting Spock’s gaze. 

“Will you require anything else?”

“Not at this time.”

“Very well. The admiral requests that you enjoy your stay and recommends you visit the library facilities, located in the ground-floor atrium.”

Spock nodded. “I shall endeavour to do so.”

Palix nodded and left the way he came, leaving the half-Vulcan alone. Spock knew his room was flanked by Sarek’s and Setek’s identical quarters, yet still he felt suddenly isolated. 

The room itself was expansive. The bed -- a dense mattress covered in several sheets of a light, gauzy fabric -- sat squarely in the centre of the room. Thick mats made from some sort of rough organic fibre covered the area around the mattress, but the rest of the floor was polished to a smooth, reflective black and cool to the touch. 

A desk made from ivory-coloured wood, probably imported from Romulus, sat pushed into a corner, to the right of a large picture window that looked out onto a barren courtyard. The desk was empty save for a squat, dome-shaped light source, and Spock’s PADD, which he’d placed there on his arrival. 

He offered his black case a forlorn look before stepping over to the desk and taking up his PADD. Several embassy info networks appeared in the scan, but only one was accessible to temporary visitors. Links to a floor plan of the embassy and some auxiliary information appeared as Spock logged on. He searched for a library catalogue, and found an aesthetically outdated and very abridged list of tape categories.

He was itching to do something useful, but it seemed that most of what the library had on offer for reformist guests was based entertainment and Romulan propaganda.

Still, it was better than staying in the room. The thought that he should meditate drifted through his mind again, and again, he pushed it aside. 

He put on his shoes and let the door close silently behind him.

*****

The library was a great deal larger than the catalogue would have indicated. A good sign, thought Spock, if he hoped to find anything of interest.

He tried one of the catalogue computers in the atrium, searched for any publications mentioning Votuhk. The only items that came up were an entry in a historical encyclopedia, and a number of video pieces with suspiciously anti-reformist titles. He located the encyclopedia tape and headed in that direction - second floor, third stack, bottom shelf. 

As he ascended the staircase, cast in the same polished black as the flooring throughout the embassy, he sensed another pair of footfalls behind his. 

He slowed his pace fractionally, the soft soles of his flat shoes scuffing against the steps.

“Spock!” A harsh female whisper came from behind him. He spun around, grabbing the banister.

“Spock!” It was Votuhk’s daughter. She pronounced Spock’s name with a guttural “H” instead of a hard “K.”

He stood still and watched as she ascended the steps in a half-run. She was wearing a loose shift that exposed most of her muscular legs as they carried her. She stopped one step below where he stood.

“Greetings,” said Spock, appraising her. She appeared a good deal more casual than she had at the landing, and her thick, auburn hair hung loose past her shoulders. “I was not informed of your name.” 

“I am Char’Von.” Her gaze drifted up the length of Spock’s white-robed form. There was a pause. She smiled at him again, mounting the final step to meet his level. She was a head shorter than him, though something about the way she carried herself made that detail fade into the background of her presence. 

She spoke again. “Are you looking for something specific? I know this library well, and I have better access than you.”

Spock chewed his lip momentarily before answering. “I was looking for information about your father.” 

Char’Von raised an eyebrow. “Really? You just arrived and already you’re trying to uncover our family secrets?” There was some humour in her voice.

“My motives are not so strategic. I am simply curious.”

She nodded once, mocking complicitness. “I know where the good stuff is. Follow me.” She began to run up the stairs.

“Wait!”

She turned.

Spock looked up at her. “Why are you helping me?” 

She shrugged. “You seem like you need help.”

*****

They quickly found themselves on the third and top floor of the atrium, deep in a stack that the Romulan had accessed with a fingerprint scan. 

She passed him a black tape engraved with Romulan characters.

“That’s my father’s military record.” She stood. “This whole stack is just service records.”

Spock turned the tape over in his hands. 

“I have heard your father was one of the youngest cadets ever to pilot a battle cruiser.”

Char’Von was straight and still, looking Spock directly in the eyes. “The third youngest in the Empire,” she said. Spock detected neither pride nor contempt in her voice.

“Do you intend to follow his example?”

“Oh, yes!” The young woman lit up. “I’ve been accepted into the academy on Romulus already. I’ll be starting my classes when I return from this trip.”

Spock nodded and turned away, still holding the black tape in both hands.

“What about you, Spock?”

He didn't turn to look at her. “I’ve been offered entry into the Vulcan Science Academy.”

A silence fell between them. Spock couldn’t see Char’Von’s expression, but he imagined that she was piecing together the unsaid information in his statement.

At length, she said quietly, “your mother is human, no?”

Now Spock turned. “Indeed.” He held her gaze plainly.

“You are not fully Vulcan.”

“Biologically, I may be half-human. But I am a Vulcan.”

Her expression betrayed something, then, that Spock did not quite understand. “Indeed, Spock,” she said. 

The tape felt heavy in Spock’s grasp.


	3. Chapter 3

It was much later in the day when Spock retired once again to his room. Most of the evening had been taken up by a formal dinner in which Votuhk spoke at length about his plans to revitalize the cultural attitude of the Territories. He seemed to have a prepared answer for every one of Sarek’s questions on the matter. 

After assuring his father that he would contact his mother in the morning, Spock found himself once again alone. 

He immediately pulled the tape out of his pocket and slotted it into the reader on his PADD. Votuhk’s service record was relatively brief, with a number of commendations, though none of them were for anything particularly historic. Spock noticed an odd sparseness to the logs, and a significant gap in time during Votuhk’s captaincy in which nothing at all was recorded.

He made a mental note to go back to the library the following day and search for records of Votuhk’s binding to the Doyen.

Spock exited the player program and stared at the screen for a while, thinking perhaps he could brush up on his physics history or review one of the Federation practice exams that he’d found in his father’s file library at home.

The motivation would not come. Eventually, he shut off the PADD and lay down on the bed, at last, to meditate. Thoughts of the Romulans swirled in his mind. So much akin to Vulcans and yet so alien. 

He thought of Char’Von’s smile, the unrestrained and, frankly, _fascinating_ quickness with which her expression could change. 

The coolness radiating from the floor and meeting the hot, heavy air eventually lulled him into a trance state. The next thing he was aware of was morning light streaming through the open window.

*****

Char’Von was sitting at a table when Spock arrived in the dining hall for the morning meal. Sarek and Setek sat at a small table laden with documents and tapes. 

“Good morning father.”

“Good morning, Spock. Have you spoken with your mother?”

“Yes. She extends her affection to you and Setek. It seems that yesterday’s dust storm was more severe than initially predicted, and caused some minor damage to the exterior of the house. She's having it repaired today.”

Sarek nodded, his expression opaque. “Spock, have you met the admiral’s daughter?”

“I have, father.”

“Good. It would be advantageous for you to be social during our time here.”

Spock nodded slowly, attempting to the motivations in Sarek’s statement. Perhaps his father simply wanted Spock out of his hair while he and Setek talked strategy.

“I think I will go say hello to her now.”

“A logical action, my son.”

Spock walked over to the table where Char’Von sat. It was just outside of the older Vulcans’ earshot. “May I sit here?”

“Of course, Spock.” That smile, again. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”

Spock looked at her. “It was… reasonably productive.”

“”Reasonably productive.’” She looked at a spot just over Spock’s left shoulder, as if trying to determine what exactly Spock had meant by that statement. 

“I reviewed your father’s record.”

“And?” She was looking him directly in the eyes now.

“He has performed well, but not unusually well. I am curious as to what warrants his power in your culture.”

“That is mostly my mother’s doing.” Char’Von’s voice lowered as she said this. 

“Their bond improved his status?”

“Something like that. In Romulan culture, females -- particularly of my mother’s standing -- to select their partners by any means they deem appropriate. Historically, men and women of lesser rank were challenged against one another in physical combat, to win the hand of the Doyen. My mother simply took my father as her own, without so much fanfare. It was quite... unusual at the time.”

Spock gave her a puzzled look. “And this is seen as worthy of praise?”

“Not at the time. However, the longer they have stayed together and in their respective positions of power, the more respect has come to them. My mother is known for her strength as a leader,” Char’Von paused, looked thoughtful. “And to some extent, her beauty. Some Romulans that adored her for her beauty saw her selection of my father as a turning point in the leadership practices of Romulus.”

Spock nodded, wondering vaguely if Char’Von would also be considered beautiful according to Romulan standards. “Is there any information about her in the library?”

Here his companion raised an eyebrow. “Yes, of course. I must attend a lesson this morning, but meet me in the archives at 1500 and I’ll show you where to find it.” 

“Very well.”

“Are you hungry?”

Spock was about to refuse her offer, but happened to glance over at his father. Sarek quickly looked away. 

“Yes.”

*****

The library was cool and dark when Spock arrived at the meeting time. He’d spent a few hours in his room, begrudgingly turning his attentions to his studies. 

Spock wondered if anyone else ever used the library -- granted he’d only been here twice, but each time it seemed silent as a burial site. He wondered if Char’Von had forgotten, then heard the telltale pat-pat of her flat-soled shoes approaching him. 

He nodded in greeting. Her hair was tied up again in a complex arrangement accented by tiny, dark crystals suspended from fine metallic threads. 

“Still looking for the tapes about the Doyen?” She asked.

“If it poses you no inconvenience.”

“Not at all. There isn’t much for me to do here - my parents and all their advisors are always busy, and usually there’s no one around who’s my age.”

She offered Spock a glance that seemed meaningful. He raised his eyebrows. 

“Come on, then.” She turned away and set out up the stairs. 

When they were deep in a second-floor stack that held publicity records he cleared his throat and asked, “do you know a man named Palix?” She looked at him. He continued, “he is Romulan. He delivered my case to my room yesterday evening.”

Her look softened. “Ah, one of the service boys.” She lowered her voice. “He was my father’s _arvan_ for a time, but he was replaced.”

“ _Arvan_?”

“Forgive me. I suppose the nearest word in your language would be… attaché?”

Spock nodded an affirmative. “Why was he replaced?”

Char’Von shrugged, looked suddenly defensive. “He behaved inappropriately.”

“Really?” Said Spock. He turned toward the stack. “He seemed quite… timid, when I met him.”

“Well, probably toward you…”

“What?”

She dropped to her knees, her face now buried in a cavity left by a section break in the shelf. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Palix’s duties are with guests, I rarely cross paths with embassy service boys.”

Spock stood watching her, wondering if he’d said something to offend her. She seemed to take longer than was necessary to search that particular shelf, but when she finally straightened she was holding three tapes. She shoved them into Spock’s hands. 

“These are public tapes. These two are news coverage of the wedding and this is a celebrity profile from a kind of… an entertainment source.”

Spock looked at the tapes, then at her. He had an implacable urge to touch her on the shoulder just then - something his mother had often done when he was a child, more infrequently now, but still on occasion when he seemed to be in distress. His hand twitched. 

“Is something wrong?”

He must have been frowning. “I was about to ask the same of you.”

She gave him an odd little half smile. “Oh. Yes, I’m alright. Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere.”

Spock nodded, though he found that he was strangely dissatisfied with that answer. 

The late afternoon sun was heating the floors at the library entrance. They stood at the center of the atrium for a moment, looking at each other awkwardly. 

“What was the subject of your lesson, earlier?” Spock broke the silence in spite of himself.

“The history of the territories. My father thought that it would help make the territory-related lessons that I have to learn for the academy more memorable if I received some of them while we were staying here. So my tutor travelled with us.”

“I see. Do you have more today?”

“No. It’s just a few hours each week. Trevanian… my tutor… he’s teaching a few other students remotely so now he’s working with them.”

Their eyes met and Spock felt as if he should turn away, and yet he could not move. Again, there was something in her expression that he could not read. 

“Would you like to take a walk around the grounds? Seems like you haven’t been outside since you got here.”

In spite of himself, he agreed. 

The walk was mostly in silence. Spock was unable to think of much to say, but Char’Von did not seem uncomfortable. The grounds of the embassy were expansive, and unmistakably Vulcan. What landscaping had been done mostly served to emphasize the natural rock formations of the area. A few forlorn looking trees -- ivory-colored like the wood of the desk in Spock’s room -- populated the shaded areas nearest the building itself, and a network of painstakingly patterned mosaic stone paths led them back to an outer wing of the building that featured several high windows, each pane of glass mottled with automatic sunshade frosting to regulate the heat from the dying evening star. 

As they passed these windows, Spock heard a voice and motioned for Char’Von to stop walking. She did so, cocking her head in curiosity as Spock leaned in further to listen, certain that they could not been seen at this angle through the frosted glass. 

The voice belonged to Votuhk, and Spock felt almost guilty for taking such transparent interest in Char’Von’s father with the woman standing right next to him. 

The Romulan admiral was laughing, a harsh, sharp sound that cut easily through the silence of the embassy grounds. 

“No, the Empire has no wish to expand its territory at the moment. Certainly not in such a… risky… installation. Of course! If Vulcan wished to join, you know your people would be welcomed.” 

Another voice spoke. Spock recognized his father immediately, and instinctively moved closer to the shade of the building, pressing his body flat against the rough outer wall. 

“Vulcan holds an advantageous position within the Federation already. It would be most illogical to join Romulus. Our respective goals are divergent.”

“Of course, dear Sarek. The offer remains open.”

“Indeed.”

“Your son. He will be entering the Vulcan science academy soon enough, won’t he?”

Char’Von gave Spock a look, at this, and moved closer as if to shield him.

“That is my hope. My wife, however, has informed me of late that he has designs on entering Starfleet.” 

“Starfleet! That is the Earth fleet, no?”

“Yes.”

“Your son is leaning into his human blood, then?”

“He is my son. He is Vulcan. He is merely…” There was silence, but Spock could feel his father’s exasperated sigh through the wall. 

The pause hung for what seemed like an age. Then Votuhk spoke again. “You say you hold an advantageous position within the Federation. You have willingly bonded with a human. Yet you are afraid to allow your son to enter the Human fleet.” There was a pause, a buzz of tension. “Sarek, have you dug yourself in too deep?” Again Votuhk seemed on the verge of laughing.

“My decisions were logical. It is also none of your concern.”

“Indeed. And your decision to procreate with Amanda, rather than adopting a Vulcan child, or, perhaps, choosing a Vulcan mistress... a mistake? An accident?”

“What is your goal in asking, Votuhk?”

“I do not know, Sarek. I find it amusing, I suppose. It may be shooting myself in the foot to say so, but take a moment to imagine the doors that could be opened by the Vulcan Ambassador’s son serving in the Human fleet.” 

There was a heavy silence. Spock’s throat felt tight. He looked at the ground instead of at Char’von, though he could feel her eyes boring into him. After some time the voices resumed, lighter, perhaps the subject had been changed, but Spock no longer cared to listen. He padded away from the building, silently, and continued down the path. 

“Spock,” Char’von offered his name in a harsh whisper. He continued his pace, determined not to show a reaction. 

_She must not see me like this._

But the young Romulan quickened her pace to a smooth half-jog, finally overtaking Spock and spinning around to face him. She grabbed the spindly trunk of one of those skeletal trees, holding her arm out to disrupt his path. 

“Spock. Your father meant nothing by it.”

“You do not know my father.”

They were stopped, now, facing off against each other on the path, the light quickly fading into evening.

Char’Von’s eyes were hard. “I understand, though.”

“This is not your battle to fight, Char’Von. Please. Do not…” Spock looked at his feet. 

Char’Von stepped slightly closer. He could smell her hair on the breeze. 

He looked into her eyes, trying to see past them, to grasp her motivations in this moment. He felt oddly torn between wanting to push her so she would stumble and run away, and wanting to grab her and pull her into his chest. 

Instead he stood silently, his breathing laboured, thoughts racing in a manner that was extremely un-Vulcan. 

She stepped closer. The backs of her hands brushed against his and he felt a thin buzz at the back of his mind, for a moment. 

Then she raised a hand to touch his face, fingers brushing meld points aimlessly, but deliberately.

Spock stood stunned for a moment, his eyes wide open even as Char’Von’s closeness blocked all view. Then he closed his eyes, and bit by bit allowed himself to give in to the touch, his breath hitching when a connection was formed, before dissolving an instant later. 

Char’Von’s breath was hot and smelled faintly of spices that Spock could not name. Eventually she threaded her arms around the small of his back, and he relaxed slightly, raising his own to her sides. She rested her head against his collarbone, and he stood, holding her, unsure of what to do.

After some time, during which he was able to calm himself enough to show his face to Char’Von once more, Spock pulled away. He let his hands trail slowly down to her hips before they fell limp at his sides.

He stared at her, not daring to move his gaze lest it be interpreted as some emotion, some reaction. 

Her eyes almost glowed in the blue of twilight.

“Spock…” she breathed. “I…”

She averted her gaze, a signal, perhaps, of deference, but Spock didn’t reply. He let his eyes trail across the line of her jaw, the faint twitch of muscle there that indicated she was chewing her lip. He stared until she spoke again.

“I suppose you want to return to your room,” she said, and now she was smiling in that opaque way. Spock felt odd, suddenly aware of the heat radiating from the plateau. 

He nodded, slowly. “I believe that would be prudent for both of us.”

She looked a little sad as she nodded.


	4. Chapter 4

Spock sat at the desk for a long time, staring at the blank holo screen of his PADD.

He should meditate. He _needed_ to meditate.

Instead, he stood and walked over to the comm panel on the wall. 

“ _Mmhain’he koihaes pinhere,_ ” declared the pre-recorded voice. The message was followed by its Vulcan translation. “Embassy guest service.”

Spock began in Vulcan. “I would like to request… a serving of hot tea, to my room.”

“At once, Schn T’Gai Spock.” The voice became robotic as it pronounced his name. Programmed with phonetic text, but not personally recorded, Spock noted.

The comm clicked off and went dark. Spock sat at the desk once more, staring unseeing at the shadow of the doorway.

It was no more than five Vulcan minutes later when the doorbell chimed. 

“Come.”

“Good evening Schn T’Gai Spock,” said a familiar voice.

Palix stepped into the room. 

“Just Spock, please.”

Palix looked up at Spock for a second, then nodded and walked toward him, holding the tea tray expectantly. 

“On the desk is fine, thank you.”

The service boy, still dressed in his face-covering, and an over-large midnight-blue tunic that came down to his knees, nodded and placed the tray without a sound on the white wood surface. 

Spock observed Palix’s movements carefully, again feeling a slight discomfort at the man’s intense aversion to eye contact. 

“Palix…” he said, without a plan. The half-covered face snapped up, the emerald eyes framed by a band of bronze skin.

“You once worked for Votuhk, did you not?”

Palix blinked, then quickly lowered his gaze, as if he was remembering it, slightly late.

“That is true.”

“Why did you leave?”

Palix looked up at Spock, now, his eyes burning with something between shock and regret. “My services were no longer required.”

Spock wondered if speaking in riddles was simply a Romulan tradition.

“Forgive me. I was simply curious. I am… interested in Romulan culture, but here in this embassy I feel slightly sheltered.”

Palix was still looking at him. A moment passed before he said, “you are forgiven, Schn-- Spock. However it is not my place to say why the admiral no longer employs me directly.” 

“That is logical.” They looked at each other. Spock continued. “Do you know the admiral’s daughter Char’Von?”

Palix stiffened for a fraction of a second, long enough for Vulcan perception, though just barely. He turned his head again. “I have met her on occasion, but we are not close.”

“Palix… do you know why Votuhk is here in the Territories?”

“Spock,” said Palix, “this is an odd question. Votuhk has been forthcoming about his intentions in the Territories.”

“Indeed. But do you trust that he is being truthful?”

Palix seemed to forget his position for a moment, laughing a slight, almost nervous laugh before responding. “I am Romulan. Isn’t it somewhat illogical for you, a Vulcan reformist, to ask me whether I trust the admiral?”

“Perhaps,” said Spock. “But you are not saying yes.”

Palix looked at him again, his brow -- what was visible of it -- knitting. “I have personal bias against Votuhk, however my confidence in his decisions has never faltered.” He was standing straight now, arms at his sides, though Spock could sense a hum of energy coursing through his figure, as if he was prepared for this conversation to deteriorate into hand-to-hand combat at any second. 

“That is fair,” said Spock. 

Palix relaxed by a fraction. “Is there anything else?”

Spock thought for a moment. 

“No. Thank you.”

Palix nodded. “As always, if you require anything, call for me.”

*****

Spock connected one of the tapes to his screen while he sipped his tea. As Char’Von had noted, the content concerning her mother was somewhat more gossipy in nature. 

The Doyen cut an imposing figure, standing in a crowd next to Votuhk on their day of binding. She was slightly taller than her husband, with a muscular frame that created a monolithic look under the structured red garment she wore. In fact, Spock had to assume that the figure dressed in white standing next to her _was_ Votuhk, given the traditional face covering he wore. 

Though his Romulan was rusty to say the least, he gathered from the voiceover that there were those who were offended by the Doyen’s decision to be bound to a _thaessu_ \-- a Vulcan. A slur, regarding Votuhk’s birthplace. Spock found himself surprised at the level of apparent animosity between Romulans of the “true Empire,” and those of the Vulcan Territories. 

He paused the video as the shot panned over the scene, zooming in slightly on the Doyen’s face. 

Char’Von was indeed, the spitting image of her mother. The woman in the video appeared to survey the crowd with shadowed eyes, her bondmate, or soon-to-be, gazing at her with what Spock could only call awe. 

It was an overwhelming emotion, something that should be foreign to Spock, and yet for the first time he felt he could relate quite directly to Votuhk. The room felt suddenly too hot, despite the coolness of the floors and the pitch black of desert night, just outside the window. Spock’s robes felt heavy. 

He shut off his padd, stripped off his garments, and lay naked on the bed, all the while confusingly aware of his actions. Thinking of Char’Von made him feel strange, something he felt he could attribute to the strangeness of the day’s events. He noted that it wasn’t an _unpleasant_ strangeness, however -- as displeased as he tended to be when his human side floated to the surface, this felt… different. 

He stared at the dark, rippled ceiling of the room, listening to the blood pumping in his ears, and was eventually taken by unconsciousness. 

*****

He awoke once again to the morning sun and a message alert blinking on his PADD. As Spock straightened in bed he found he had a pounding headache, and despite the chill that had fallen over the landscape during the planet’s rotation into darkness, his skin felt hot.

Rubbing his temples, he stood and walked to the desk. 

The message was from Sarek. He was to dress appropriately for the planned excursion into V’Lashek, the main metropolitan centre of the Territories, and pack a small bag with anything he would require for a two-day stay. 

It dawned on Spock that he was still naked, and though the air -- still hung with the slight chill of night -- felt soothing on his skin, he immediately set about dressing.


	5. Chapter 5

Eighteen minutes later, Spock was standing next to Setek and Sarek in the large gathering hall of the embassy. They were joined a moment later by Votuhk’s party -- the admiral, along with his two aides, and Char’Von.

Spock watched as the Romulan woman quickened her pace across the polished floor to match her father. All the Romulans were once again wearing face coverings, so Spock watched Char’Von’s eyes, and felt a strange jolt pass through his body when she looked up to meet his gaze. 

His father gave him a look, and for a moment Spock wondered if he might say something. 

Instead, Votuhk offered the _ta’al_ , and waved the three Vulcan men through the stone doors and out onto the tarmac once again.

They piled into the land vehicle that Spock had seen the Romulans arrive in. Votuhk’s two aides took the front-facing seats. 

“V’lashek is two Vulcan hours east of the Embassy,” explained the aide. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.” He turned a sequence of keyed levers, and Spock felt the engine of the vehicle begin to hum below him. 

The passenger’s seats in the vehicle were arranged along the length of the interior, two rows of four seats facing one another. Spock inferred from the utilitarian design that this vehicle was also used to transport militia, when it wasn’t being used for peacetime guest tours. Spock gazed at the Romulans’ feet, allowing himself an occasional glance up at Char’Von’s face.

She met his eyes, but he could not tell whether she smiled or not. 

Spock turned his head watch the aide’s long fingers dance nimbly across the holographic control screen on the vehicle’s dashboard.

Votuhk spent a large portion of the trip narrating their passage, pointing out various landmarks and generally talking up the influence of the empire, while his aide mediated with reminders of the differences in culture between Romulus and the Territories. 

Spock tried to be fascinated by the occasional rock formation or spot of botanical life outside his window, but as the journey progressed he found himself distracted.

The heat -- normal for the season and the weather -- seemed overwhelming. Spock found it enveloped him, made it almost hard to breathe. Worse still was his growing concern over it. He should be able to categorize this feeling, put it away in a logical place and think of it no more. Instead his mind oscillated with increasing violence between concern for his wellbeing, and an obsessive replaying of the feeling of Char’Von’s fingers on his face.

He glanced at his father, and Setek. Both seemed to be focused on Votuhk’s words.

Then an alarm cut sharply through the interior air of the vehicle. A red light flashed on the dashboard, reflecting off the face of the driver.

“Storm, sir,” the aide said in Romulan.

Votuhk stood and walked to the pilot’s seat. He examined the control panel over the driver’s shoulder.

“Heading northeast, but at our present speed it will intersect us in 16 minutes, sir.”

“Slow down then,” said Votuhk flatly.

“Sir, we will have to stop here for up to an hour in order to stay clear of the storm’s path.”

“Do what you must,” said Votuhk, his tone hardening almost undetectably.

Spock watched his father intently. He could tell that Sarek wanted to argue, but was weighing the diplomatic merits of keeping silent against this urge.

Spock felt a bead of sweat form on his forehead as the vehicle began to slow. He reached up and brushed it away quickly, wondering at it. He couldn’t remember ever sweating. He touched his face again, feeling Char’Von’s fingers reflexively. 

His face felt slick, oily; his breathing was laboured. Spock shut his eyes and rested the back of his head against the seat rest, making fists with his hands against the rough fabric of his outer robes. 

Pushing desperately against the flood of thoughts, he tried to think of nothing, tried to spread his consciousness out over the unfeeling red sand of the landscape. But meditation would not come. Out the window, he noticed that the vehicle had come to a stop near a small collection of single-story buildings that shone white against an impending cloud of sand. 

“ _Eirhiss tehsmaer,_ ” said one of the aides in a hushed voice to Votuhk.

There was a pause, then the admiral turned to the group of Vulcan men and announced, “These buildings are part of the Prosper research station. We can seek shelter for a time inside. The vehicle can be sealed against the storm in the meantime.”

A beat, then the party began to stand and collect belongings. 

The interior of the main research station building was pristine white, lit brightly and evenly from a source that Spock could not immediately identify. A woman who looked Vulcan by blood stood at a table near the entrance, reading something from a holographic screen. She shut it down before Spock could make out any words or symbols. 

“ _Enriov_ Votuhk!” She said loudly, and stood pin straight, facing the travel party, pressing one hand to her chest.

Votuhk stepped forward and put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. They conducted a brief conversation in Romulan, then the woman looked at the Vulcans and gestured for them to follow her. 

She led them through a doorway in the back of the main building, and down a narrow corridor. Another doorway, and they were in a space that looked decidedly less austere than the research lab. Two narrow, low tables were surrounded by wide, plush benches and mats. Off in a corner, a taller table made from that same white wood held a pitcher of water and several small drinking vessels. An air-sealed cupboard next to the table apparently held food. A square display monitor embedded into the wall opposite created a false window.

The woman spoke. “This is the station dormitory. Your storm is more severe than I believe you initially suspected. There are enough separate rooms available to house you all comfortably. Help yourself to anything in the food storage, and to water.”

“How long will the storm last?” Asked Setek.

“Overnight, at least.”

The woman turned on a heel and left. Votuhk and one of the aides followed her. They returned a moment later, apparently having had some quick discussion with the researcher. 

The party stood uneasily for a time, staring each other down, then Char’Von walked over to the table and helped herself to a cup of water. The act seemed to cut the tension, and the men took seats, Spock opting for a dense cushion on the floor. Char’Von placed a cup of water in front of him on the table. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, touching his face. 

“Votuhk, if I may ask: on what, exactly, does this station conduct research?” Setek was leaning forward in his seat. Sarek appeared calm and collected next to him. 

“It is a weather station,” said Votuhk. “The buildings are connected by underground tunnels. This, and the lack of windows, allows for constant upkeep of a staff and delicate equipment, even in severe storm conditions. T’Revni -- the woman who lead us here -- is the head of operations. Usually this dormitory is occupied by other researchers, but this is not storm season, so T’Revni is alone for a few weeks.”

Setek nodded, his curiosity evidently assuaged. Sarek was not so easily swayed. He looked at Votuhk pointedly. “Your vehicle’s sensors are highly inaccurate. Were you aware of this before we left the embassy?”

One of the aides looked as if he might say something, but Votuhk put up a hand. “The sensors are not so inaccurate. The air is dry, and the storm is generating an unusual amount of electromagnetic interference. Prosper’s sensors are more sensitive, and better protected. That is the only reason T’Revni was able to give us a more accurate estimate.”

“It seems quite… lucky, that we should have opted to stop the vehicle so close to the station.”

“Indeed. Though I assure you it is a simple coincidence.”

Spock listened to this tense conversation as he sipped the water from Char’Von. Each swallow seemed to extinguish a fire. He felt feverish, his eyes hot and dry, an uncharacteristic sense of frustration pervading his thoughts. 

He noticed Char’Von staring at him from across the table. She made eye contact, her expression one of concerned curiosity. Spock quickly cast his eyes down, examining the points where his thin fingers met the pale polymer ceramite of the cup. He finished the remainder of the water, and stood to get more. 

After some time, the conversation between Sarek and Votuhk petered out, and the group was left sitting in silence in the common room. T’Revni had not appeared since she led them here, and though the false window screen displayed what looked like late afternoon, it was impossible to gauge its accuracy.

Sarek looked over at his son. “Spock,” he said in a low voice. “Are you alright? You are breathing quite heavily.”

Spock noticed his father’s eye flash to Votuhk for a split second, as if to check whether or not the Romulan had taken notice. There was no reaction from the other party. 

“I’m…I am fine, father.” Spock looked away quickly, clasping his hands behind him. 

Sarek’s eyes drilled into his son, and Spock sat frozen, wondering if Sarek would press. “I think perhaps you should attempt to rest,” the older man said.

There was an overlong pause as Spock attempted to collect his thoughts. “Yes… yes father. I concur.” Spock sat on his hands to avoid bringing them up to his face once again. 

He stood and took the cup of water with him. “I will be in my room. Please alert me if the conditions improve enough for us to depart.”

“Of course.”

Spock selected a room at the end of the dormitory corridor. Assuming they all looked the same in terms of interior, he preferred to be as far from Votuhk’s expected position as possible. Opening the door, he found a small chamber with a bed and a desk, similar to the one he’d stayed in at the embassy, though much more cramped and lacking the large, open window and built-in comm system. 

He placed the water on the desk and stripped off the top layer of his robes, tossing them onto the seat. Then wearing only his thin, translucent drape he lay down on top of the bedcovers and shut his eyes, trying to meditate. 

He did not succeed in meditation, but eventually lost track of the time, and was taken by sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Spock panted, thrashing on top of the bed. His action woke him and he lay still for a moment before sitting up. He felt frightened, but also strangely powerful, as if the thing he was frightened of was his own agitation, distilled into an urge to attack.

To kill. 

He listened to the sound of his own breathing, his own heart beat, in the silence of the room. A warmth began to unfurl deep in the pit of his belly. He wanted… he _wanted._ This, in itself, was a profundity. 

Spock took stock of himself, realized that he was hard, his sexual organ pushing against his thin sleeping robes, throbbing with need. 

He panted harder. The white fabric was wet with sweat, but Spock ignored it. It had become a small concern in the face of a realization. 

He had been told about this. He had known it would happen, just not when. He’d imagined more warning. Spock gritted his teeth, riding a wave of misplaced anger at the untruth that this was Sarek’s fault. 

_I wasn’t prepared._

_I wasn’t warned._. 

Spock stood and paced the room, his erection pointing obscenely. He fell forward against a wall, pushing his hands into the grit of it. He buried his head into his arm, biting at his skin, hoping pain would somehow pull him out of this. Instead it seemed only to feed into it. He jerked his hips forward, pressing his sex into the wall, and let out a mewling cry that he could not imagine coming from his own throat, caught up in the rough, distantly pleasurable sensation of stone scraping across already burning nerves. 

At that moment he heard the door behind him click and push open a fraction, as if whoever was behind it was attempting to be silent. He wanted to whirl around, to attack whoever would intrude with teeth and nails, but his embarrassment at his condition stopped him. He breathed into the wall, eyes shut desperately. 

“Spock,” came a whisper.

Char’Von. 

Again the memory of her touch flashed through Spock’s mind. He turned his head, knowing his face displayed an unbecoming, _illogical_ snarl. 

“Why are you here?” He asked, voice low and quivering. 

A long moment passed in which Spock’s heavy breaths were the only thing that punctuated the silence. Then Char’Von said, “I know what’s happening to you.”

“How can you know?” Snapped Spock, still not turning.

“I…” for the first time, the Romulan woman seemed unsure of herself. “I felt it. I touched your mind briefly, when we were walking on the embassy grounds. After you heard your father speaking.”

A low growl escaped Spock’s lips, frightening some part of him while adding fuel to his rage. 

She continued, “I know I shouldn’t have. I failed to respect your privacy. For that, I am sorry.”

Spock imagined her with head bowed, wearing that same short dress that she’d been wearing in the library, the first time they’d spoken. Her dense, stocky figure, curled closed, the picture of submission. He hissed out a breath as images flashed across his mind -- his fingers entwined in her hair and pulling, his teeth at the back of her neck. His cock twitched, hot between his legs. 

“I felt fine when you touched me,” he said in a fractured voice.

“You probably did. But your… _plak tow_ was already present. Barely there, but growing.”

“Romulans do not have telepathic abilities.”

“Most don’t.”

Spock couldn’t think straight enough to press the issue further. He snarled into the wall, fighting opposing impulses: to hide, or to turn and rush toward Char’Von, to push her to the ground and take her.

“You can turn around,” she said. “I know what’s happening.”

When Spock still did not turn she added quietly, but firmly, “I want to help.”

He turned, then, face twisted into a grimace of anger and pain, every muscle in his body taut and on fire, his manhood throbbing desperately.

Char’Von’s eyes raked his narrow figure up and down. If she was afraid, she hid it very well. A hand came up to the collar of her garment and pulled, revealing a triangle of bare flesh that shone in the darkness.

Spock drew in a breath, slowly. The voice in his head telling him no, _stop_ was growing weaker, more distant with every passing moment. His entire body was aflame with want, with _need_ , and Char’Von was an offering, waiting to be devoured. 

He stepped forward, closing the space between Char’Von and himself, and lifted his hands to grab her but stopped himself, trembling. “You do not know what you are saying,” he hissed, his eyes fixed on the point where the fabric of her dress met her skin. 

“But _I_ am saying it,” she whispered.

Spock felt another wave of heat pass over him and he gripped Char’Von by the wrists and spun her around. Her heels caught the edge of the mattress and she fell backward, landing heavily on her buttocks. 

In one swift pull Spock spread her knees wide, noting in that small, logic-driven part of his mind that Char’Von was more than strong enough to stop him.

He fell onto her, pressing himself against her until they were both prone on the thin mattress and biting at her neck until dark red marks marred her bronzed skin. 

An unthinking push, _push,_ until the obstacle of his drape made itself known and he tore away the fabric, hearing it rip in his grasp, and pushed her skirt up past her navel for good measure. An inward voice almost laughed. _Fascinating,_ the voice mused, as he gazed at Char’Von -- now stark naked from the waist down -- and thought he saw a shimmer, a sheen of velvet want, in that shadowed slit between her legs.

Too quickly, he pushed again, rolling his hips and feeling his length sliding into her easily. 

“Spock!” Came her cry as his motion reached its terminus, their bodies slamming together with bruising force. 

He felt her legs tighten against his sides, a squeeze almost strong enough to prevent the exit pull, the curl of his spine as he extracted himself as slowly as his want would allow, huffing and grinding his teeth with every inch.

So began a desperate fight, Char’Von pulling him in, taking from him, Spock giving violently in rhythmic thrusts rendered achingly brief by the Romulan’s grip. 

His hands moved independent of any conscious control, pinning her arms to the bed, then tearing at the fabric of her dress, then clamping brutally around her neck and pulling through her hair, now matted with sweat, both of theirs. Her dress fell away in shaking filaments, revealing dark, heavy breasts. Spock took each in his hands, then his mouth, his teeth, tasting blood, once, faintly, never ceasing his rhythm, wanting. _Wanting._

“Yes… oh, yes, Spock,” she began to whisper, repeating his name like a mantra, “Oh, Spock, Spock…,” each meeting of their hips punctuated with a breathy word. Her volume crescendoed and had Spock been anywhere close to his right mind he might have been concerned about the noise, “Oh! Spock! _Spock!_ ” but as it was he could barely hear, barely see, aware of nothing but the burning heat that flowed through his veins, pooling in his belly, threatening to break them both.

His movements lost their rhythm, and Char’Von’s cries no longer had any meaning. Spock came with an arcing shudder, stiffening against her and pushing as if to run her through with his cock, pinning her to the mattress like a trophy. 

For her part, Char’Von let out one final strained moan and held Spock, her arms and legs crushing around him as he flooded into her.

At last, she released her hold and fell limp, breathing heavily as Spock himself collapsed with barely enough wherewithal to roll onto his side, pulling himself free.

*****

His fever seeming to abate, he opened his eyes after a time to stare at the blank, bare ceiling of the room, wondering at the consequences of his uncontrolled actions. Char’Von moved beside him, but he could not bring himself to look at her, his rational mind now afraid to face the evidence of his untamed state.

A sound from somewhere down the hall set his nerves on fire again, and he stiffened, propping himself up on elbows to listen. 

There was a loud bang, unmistakable as the sound of a door being forced open, and Spock immediately stood and found his discarded garments. Char’Von’s dress was still under her on the mattress, and Spock allowed himself a long enough look to watch her stand and gather the bedsheet around herself, ignoring the now-shredded clothing.

Spock pulled his robe on just in time for Sarek to burst in.

“Spock…” the Vulcan ambassador paused as he surveyed the scene before him, his son standing in a crumpled top robe, and next to him, Votuhk’s only daughter, hastily wrapped in a bedsheet. Spock watched as several infinitesimally small movements of Sarek’s facial muscles told a brief saga of confusion, then understanding; momentary guilt and concern; a swift prayer to some ancient deity, and an oath for vengeance. 

“Father, what is happening?”

“... I don’t know. There was a sound… possibly from Votuhk’s room. Setek has gone ahead to investigate. Please remain here.”

“Yes, father.”

Sarek turned and disappeared from the room without a backward glance. 

Spock glanced to his side, at Char’Von who was staring at him with wide eyes. A moment later she had frantically fastened the top of the bedsheet into a crude knot around her shoulders, and was making her way to the door.

“Char’Von!” Spock called. The name sounded odd, and caught in his throat.

“My father,” she called back to him in lieu of explanation, not stopping.

Spock stood, alone, listening. He felt hot still, and grimy. He would have enough difficulty reasoning with Sarek later based on his obvious involvement with the admiral’s daughter — disobeying Sarek’s orders now would only complicate matters. That said, he’d done nothing to stop Char’Von from rushing toward… whatever it was that was occurring, and surely he would be considered at least partially at fault should she be injured. 

Additionally, should Sarek be in any peril…

Spock looked at the empty bed behind him, then back at the door. Two reasons to rush toward the commotion, and only one to stay behind. 

He made the logical choice.


	7. Chapter 7

The hall smelled oddly chemical, like something synthetic had caught on fire. Several people were yelling, but a haze of smoke prevented Spock from seeing clearly until he was nearly at Votuhk’s door.

He quickly realized that one of the voices was Votuhk’s. He was speaking, yelling, really, in Romulan, but extremely quickly, and using either coded language, or colloquialisms that Spock was not familiar with. 

Caught up in his attempt to translate, Spock brushed against another body in the hall, a tall figure dressed in black. 

The figure spun on a heel and wrapped their arms around Spock, clamping one hand over his mouth. 

Spock struggled to free himself, but failed to do anything but spur his captor to push him against a wall for better leverage. An awkward, violent shuffle ensued, Spock crying out against the figure’s palm while their bodies shifted against one another and the face of Spock’s opponent became visible.

T’Revni.

“You’re... the Ambassador’s son,” hissed the Vulcan woman, staring into his eyes.

Elbows braced against the wall, still pinning Spock, she began moving the fingers of her free hand to meet meld points on her captive’s face.

Spock struggled, straining his neck against her forearm, but he knew, distantly, that there was no point. Soon enough, T’Revni’s fingers brushed against those sensitive planes of skin, and Spock was overcome.

A screeching, unbearable sound filled his mind, seeming to originate from a spot right behind his eyes. With it, pain, and all-consuming whiteness that filled his vision, shimmering at the edges.

Spock knew he was screaming, but he couldn’t hear himself or feel it enough to control it. He felt his consciousness recede as if he were meditating, leaving his awareness of the room and his surroundings, slipping onto another plane of reality. 

“Spock!”

The very fabric of time was calling his name, and the sound of it reverberated in his ribs, a phonetic utterance without meaning.

“Spock!”

He fell into the rhythm of it. Time has a voice, he thought. The voice was familiar, somehow, a voice he’d known in some other place, some other life…

“Spock!”

Female. The voice was female… and attached to a body, that was pulling him up and away and…

As suddenly as it had begun, the pain was gone and Spock was back in the hallway, slumped against the wall. His vision, returning, showed him Char’Von dragging T’Revni’s limp form across the floor. 

“What…” but there was no time for him to complete the question. He felt a buzz of pain in the back of his mind, recognized it as a sensation felt through his familial link with Sarek. He stood at once though his entire body shrieked in protest, and ran toward the door to Votuhk’s quarters, tripping in bare feet and smearing a hand over the wall to avoid falling.

“Father!” He heard his own voice echoing in his head, the sensation over the link growing in intensity as he peeled around the corner and was met with a wall of acrid smoke, coughed, and waved off the vapour until he could see.

Two figures were prone on the floor, another slumped, lifeless, against the back wall. The furniture, what little there was, was in complete disarray.

In the centre of the room, Sarek knelt, his body tensed as if ready to pounce. As Spock approached, slowly now, he saw his father's hands were pressed into the face of one of the prone figures, whom Spock recognized as Votuhk’s aid. 

The man was unmistakably dead.

“Father…?”

Sarek did not respond. Spock looked around, saw the other figure on the floor was Votuhk. Instinctively, he looked at the door. Char’Von would be back. Where was Char’Von? 

Spock half-sat, half-collapsed next to his father on the floor. 

“Spock…” Sarek’s voice was heavy, suffused with something unfamiliar to his son. “Votuhk is dead. He was hit point-blank with a Romulan phase weapon by his aid. Setek shot that aid in defence.”

The slumped figure was Votuhk’s other aid. “Where is Setek now?” Asked Spock.

“He went to call for help. He’s outside. The storm has passed.”

Spock looked around. “Both aides...?”

“The other... tried to kill me. I disarmed him and disabled him with a telepathic attack.” Sarek looked at the man whose face he was still touching. “He is still alive. But…”

There was no need for Sarek to explain any further. Spock stared at the door. His father seemed, quite suddenly, to regain his full faculties and turned to face his son, rising to a crouch.

“Where is Votuhk’s daughter?” His tone was urgent.

“She… I think she is in the hallway. I was attacked by T’Revni… Char’Von disarmed her. Then I came here.”

Sarek stood without another word and walked quickly out the door. Spock surveyed the scene in the room. No had bothered to turn on the lights, or perhaps it was a deliberate decision.

Sarek’s attacker stared at the ceiling with glass eyes. His chest rose and fell at irregular intervals, drawing shallow, silent breaths. Spock shivered, feeling a touch of his earlier fever returning. 

A moment later there was a sound at the door. 

“Spock. Leave him.” It was Setek. Spock stood and went to him.

Sarek was in the hall, supporting Char’Von’s weight as she stood. “Setek, see if you can find some clothing for the admiral’s daughter. There might be some spare robes in the storage room adjacent to the common area. We will be waiting with the cruiser.”

“Sir,” said Setek, nodding and brushing past them.

“Are you certain no one else will try to harm us, Father?”

“I cannot be certain, Spock. However, given that, aside from the four of us, every person on the premises is now dead or near dead, the odds of escape are decisively in our favour.”

At the word “dead,” Char’Von made a strange noise that Spock could not place, but that he felt all the same like a jolt of pain in his stomach.

Sarek tightened his grip around her.

Soon enough, they came to an atmospheric cruiser of Romulan design parked in the courtyard of the research complex. Spock was surprised to see T’Pre standing on the landing pad, arms crossed.

“Sarek,” she said, nodding, as they approached. She was eyeing Char’Von intensely. “Does this one require medical attention?”

“I do not believe so. Her injuries are superficial, however, she appears to be in shock.”

Spock helped his father coax Char’Von into the cruiser. She seemed to stumble with each step, eyes glassy, staring through the ship’s narrow bulkhead. Setek appeared a moment later, carrying a bundle of white fabric, which he handed to Sarek. “This should fit her.”

Sarek took the bundle, then looked from Char’Von to T’Pre. 

“T’Pre,” he said. “Will you help Char’Von dress? We will wait outside.”

T’Pre nodded solemnly. 

As he and Sarek and Setek left the cruiser Spock stole a sparing glance back at Char’Von. She seemed to be trembling, slightly, but raised a hand to support herself on the pilot’s seat. T’Pre stepped back slightly, allowing the Romulan woman to stand on her own. The Vulcan looked at Spock. 

Spock turned, quickly, the bruises on Char’Von’s neck burned into his vision.

“How do you feel, Spock?” Sarek inquired as they stood outside the cruiser, facing a desolate sunrise. 

“Father?”

Sarek only looked at his son, his eyes piercing, accusatory. 

It occurred to Spock, quite suddenly, that he _felt_ feverish. A low, pulsing heat seemed to radiate from under his skin, behind his eyes. The intensity of it, earlier, in the room with Char’Von, had been so overwhelming that anything less was difficult to notice by comparison. But it was there. 

T’Pre swung halfway out of the cruiser’s hatch. “Let’s go.”

The ride back to the embassy was quiet. Char’Von seemed to have come to some sort of equilibrium, though she did not say a word for the entirety of the ride. Spock stared at her, hardly seeing, really. He was filled with confusion and a distant sense of that same _want_ that he’d felt during the peak of his fever. 

By the time they arrived, the sky was dark, and Spock felt chilled by the beaded sweat that was now cooling on his skin. 

“Should we… should we not return to Vulcan territory, Father?”

“We should, and we will, Spock. But the events that have just transpired have grave implications for the Empire as well as Vulcan. We cannot simply leave the Territories without consulting with the requisite authorities.”

Spock nodded, then noticed a moment later that he was grinding his teeth.

Sarek seemed to take great care in avoiding his son’s gaze as they exited the cruiser. Char’Von seemed to have regained the ability to walk on her own, and moved in front of Spock.

He watched her, a hunger growing in him, his eyes tracing the small marks that encircled her neck like terrible, primal jewelry. A flash of some complex emotion -- fear, desire, confusion all rolled together -- barreled through the back of his mind and was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“Spock.” He heard Sarek’s voice as a distant whisper, though his father was right next to him, speaking into his ear. 

“ _Spock._ ”

Spock turned to face Sarek, stopping in his tracks.

“Keep walking.”

The young half-Vulcan did as he was told. 

“Your blood is flame.” Sarek was not asking.

“What?”

“Your eyes are flame.”

This time Spock only hissed low, and turned away.

“I can see it, my son. You are in danger. I… I cannot wholly condemn your actions with Char’Von. It was… logical… of you to…” he seemed to have trouble finding the right word, ultimately choosing to skip it entirely. “But you must meditate. You cannot… use her again. It will not work.”

“And how am I supposed to meditate, father? We are barely a step up from fugitives, as it stands.”

They were nearing the heavy doors of a back entrance to the embassy. Setek had suggested they take an alternate route, avoid the front doors. 

“I understand that there will be no time for you to enter a full trance state. But I need to contact representatives from Vulcan before we can leave the embassy. It will take three to four hours. Use that time. I will have Setek posted outside your room, if necessary.”

Spock said nothing. Sarek’s voice dipped low, harsh in Spock’s ear. “I will not lose my son today.”

Had Spock a rebuttal, it would have been interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a Romulan bird of prey entering low atmosphere. Sarek, Setek, and Spock turned in unison to watch the imposing craft make its ascent, on a clear course for the embassy landing pad.


	8. Chapter 8

Spock was the first to look away, and see Char’Von running toward the gates, to meet someone who was trying to leave with the same haste. 

Palix.

The deafening sound of the bird of prey’s landing thrusters overwhelmed Spock’s fevered senses, but he found he hardly needed external input — a flood of anger, of sudden understanding, filled in the blanks as he watched the scene unfold.

“Palix!”

Sarek turned to his son, a question playing briefly across his features. 

The gates were open, now, and Char’Von and Palix were charging to meet one another like opposite tides. Spock ran as he’d never run before, faster and harder than he’d run even during his own _kahs-wan_ , fleeing from some predator real or imagined.

He watched, closing the distance, as Char’Von fell upon Palix, tearing at the man’s clothing, swiftly ripping off the face covering. A wave of some foreign type of rage washed over Spock, ebbing quickly, and in his final steps he slowed just enough to allow a good enough look at Palix’s face.

The man’s features were a mask of fear and anger, a showcase for a conflict between desire to fight, and fear… of Char’Von, or of some other encroaching threat. Then Char’Von had her hands around his neck and he twisted, turning his face into the red dirt. The Romulan woman fought against him, rolling as he did, losing her advantage.

Palix was fast, and brought a hand — the one not crushed under their bodies — up to Char’Von’s face, pushing and scratching, drawing blood as a cut appeared under her right eye.

Spock growled and cut his run short, jumping the last few feet to land heavily aside Char’Von, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling.

She struggled against him, allowing her hand to leave Palix’s neck just long enough to ram her elbow into Spock’s side. Spock jolted, coughed, and recovered, fast enough to grab hold of that arm before it could return to Palix’s neck.

Palix saw his window and took it, kicking against Char’Von’s abdomen hard enough to scrabble away in a swirl of dust and sand. Char’Von gasped in pain, going momentarily limp.

But Spock had predicted Palix’s move and released Char’Von with just enough time to lunge forward and grab him by the ankles, pulling him back into the dirt. Then he was on top of the Romulan man, with an anger that didn’t belong to him surging through his veins, obscuring any rational thought. His fingernails dug through fabric and skin as he scrambled to gain some footing over his opponent. 

They fought in a tangle of thin limbs, fabric, and dust-matted hair. For a second, Spock’s eyes met Palix’s -- the Romulan’s face covering still clung to his skin but was torn and pulled askew so that Spock could see the man’s nose and lips, and there was confusion there, as if Palix hadn’t calculated for this, had thought that Char’Von would be his only foe. 

Understanding floated to the murky surface of Spock’s thoughts as he looked into those eyes. It stayed with him as he pushed the man’s face into the dirt with the flat of his palm and scraped into the exposed neck with his teeth. Spock tasted blood and heard Char’Von yelling somewhere to his left and the sound of shoes grinding against gravel and dust.

Confusion.

On Palix’s face. 

But why was he confused? Spock was justified in his actions. The man had been complicit in the death of Spock’s father. 

Spock’s father. 

Sarek?

Spock paused fractionally, and looked up at Sarek who was tossing Char’Von aside and closing in on he and Palix. Emotion -- anger, fear, confusion -- flooded Spock and suddenly he felt weak, and Palix wasn’t moving but Spock saw a smear of green on the Romulan’s neck, soaking into his face-covering. 

The half-Vulcan wiped his mouth and pulled his hand away to see it covered in the same green. 

And as he stood, he stumbled backward, wheeling his arms until he was caught bodily by Sarek, who gripped him by the wrists and held him fast.

Spock didn’t struggle. 

“Char’Von!” Someone called. A feminine voice, out for blood.

A stream of fast, angry Romulan followed. Spock turned to see a tall figure dressed in a jumpsuit the same color as the landscape.

The Doyen.

Two other Romulan women in military uniforms stood behind her, holding phase weapons. “ _Char’Von. Llilla’hu aihr._ ,” said the Doyen in an acidic tone. 

Char’Von got to her feet, brushing dust off of her robe. She bowed deeply. _”Hruh’hfir…”_ she muttered.

The Doyen smiled, though there was a slight sadness to her expression. She reached out a hand to caress Char’Von’s hair, catching a lock between her fingers. 

_Char’Von. Hnahfir’rau._ her tone had softened significantly. Spock noticed that the two guards had lowered their weapons, though their eyes were trained on him. He stared at Palix, who hadn’t moved.

The Doyen lifted Char’Von’s chin with the back of her hand and examined the cut on her daughter’s face. 

“Doyen,” Sarek said. “It is… good you are able to join us.”

The Doyen turned to Sarek, and walked toward him, brushing a hand over her daughter’s shoulder. She spoke in Vulcan, now. “You leave me no choice, Sarek of Vulcan.”

She looked at Palix, and spat on the ground where he lay. “Votuhk was a fool. I would have shipped this one to Ch’Havran while he was here, but he insisted that doing so would only be a display of weakness.” The Doyen shook her head, her eyes growing dark. 

“What does Palix have to do with this?” Asked Spock. The Doyen whirled around as if noticing him for the first time. 

“Your son?” She asked Sarek. He nodded. She turned back to Spock. “I have no doubt in my mind that it was Palix who orchestrated all of this.”

“Is this why Palix was demoted from his former position as _Arvan_?” Spock continued. He could feel the Sarek’s mind attempting to reach out to him, and another buzz, a drop of pure horror. Char’Von.

_”Romulans do not have telepathic abilities.” He’d said._

_”Most don’t,” she’d said._

Spock touched his face. His skin felt clammy.

Char’Von made some strangled noise. The Doyen stared at Spock and said, “not this, not specifically. I am curious as to how you gleaned this information, young _Thaessu._ But given the circumstances it is the least of my concern.” She turned back to her bodyguards, and jerked her head at Palix’s lifeless form.

The two women stepped forward, each grabbing a set of the Romulan’s limbs, and hoisting him like a plank of wood. Spock felt a dip in the pit of his stomach. 

The Doyen was still standing, looking at Sarek. “I would not have expected this of a Vulcan,” she said quietly. 

“Nor would I,” managed Sarek. Spock felt his father’s grip tighten on his arms. 

A moment passed, before the Doyen said, “if you would accompany me into the embassy, there are some issues that I would like to clarify.”

*****

The interior of the embassy seemed more sombre than ever. Where a few hours ago he would have relished the shaded, cool rooms, now Spock felt chilled. The Vulcans followed the Doyen into a conference room with high, vaulted ceilings and tinted windows letting in just enough light to make dust motes visible. 

The Doyen sat roughly at the head of the table, her eyes searching each of the men. 

“Did you know of the plot to assassinate Votuhk?” She asked pointedly, while the Vulcans were still settling into their chairs. 

Setek looked to Sarek, who replied calmly, “no.”

The Doyen let her gaze linger on him, then shrugged. “Very well.”

“What does Palix have to do with this? He was not present at the weather station.” Setek leaned forward slightly.

“You saw the way he ran.”

“That hardly proves anything.”

The Doyen took in a deep breath, and glanced at Char’Von, who was staring at her reflection in the black table top. “Palix was once an aide to Votuhk. He is stationed at the embassy now because four years ago my bonded discovered that Palix had ties to an extremist cell calling themselves the _Ajoi nnea Thehnhasisam._ They had previously made threats against Votuhk’s life. Palix was incarcerated in a disciplinary facility for two years, then sent here.”

“Why did this organization want to kill Votuhk?”

“ _Ajoi nnea Thehnhasisam_ were of the opinion that the Territories should not be part of the Empire. According to their manifesto, the Territories’ proximity to reformist Vulcan, along with the distance from the central governments of the Empire, made them a breeding ground for anti-Empire sentiments. They viewed the Territories as a threat to a united Romulan Empire.”

“Why send someone with such views to live and work in the Terriories?”

“Ambassador... Romulus believes in _rehabilitation._ ” The Doyen smiled grimly. 

There was a pause. At length, Spock gathered himself and spoke in a voice that he hardly recognized as his own. 

“Is Palix alive?”


	9. Chapter 9

The Doyen stared at him for a moment, apparently formulating a response.

“Yes.”

Spock let out the breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

“I received confirmation from the medic aboard my ship that he’s been stabilized. But he won’t be walking for a few days.”

Sarek stared straight ahead at the Doyen, but Spock could feel his father’s mind buzzing. 

There was something else, too. He looked at Char’Von, who hazarded a glance in his direction. Deep inside him, something stirred tentatively, but he crushed it, looking away from the Romulan. 

There was a metallic blip and the Doyen pulled a communicator from somewhere on her person. 

“Excuse me,” she said, and stood to leave the room, letting the heavy doors bang shut behind her.

Char’Von contemplated the three Vulcan men sitting across from her at the table. Sarek apparently had no qualms about involving her, too, and leaned forward to say, “is your mother being truthful?”

Spock felt a stab of anger as Char’Von looked up, her eyes wide. 

She said nothing. 

“Char’Von… please,” offered Setek weakly. 

“This issue is Romulan,” said Char’Von in a low voice. “It should not concern you.”

Sarek looked as though he was about to argue, but the Doyen returned with another bang of the heavy synthetic-stone doors. 

“Char’Von,” she said, making a gesture with two fingers that said plainly, come here. The older Romulan looked over at Sarek and said “I must return to my ship. I’ve received an urgent communication from my advisor on Ch’Havran.” She turned, then paused and added, “local authorities have been dispatched to Prospect to… clean up. You needn’t concern yourself with this.”

As the door shut behind her the room was enveloped in a pounding silence. Spock tried not to feel the ebb of Char’Von’s mind as she got further away. She hadn’t looked back. 

“She is hiding something,” said Sarek at length.

“It is true that Palix was removed from Votuhk’s entourage.”

“It seems highly illogical to then allow him to work at the Embassy.”

“The Romulans rejected logic long ago, Setek.”

“I don’t think he was allowed to work at the embassy.” Two pairs of eyes fixed on Spock. “Not by any governing body,” Spock clarified. “I think the Doyen stationed him here.”

“The Doyen? But why would she want someone so risky to be near her bondmate?”

“As a scapegoat.”

“A… but she said she herself that she would have had him shipped to Ch’Havran.”

“Do you think that a leader of the Romulan empire would be so intent on telling us the truth?” Setek flung the words at Sarek.

“A Vulcan delegation would not dare accuse the Doyen of plotting to kill her own bondmate without adequate evidence.”

“What about T’Revni! She tried to kill me!” 

“Was she trying to kill you, or was she simply trying prevent you from reaching Votuhk?”

“Does it truly matter?”

Spock rested his head in his hands. This day had been the longest he’d ever experienced. He wondered, for the first time since he’d met Char’Von, how his mother was doing.

“I am going to my quarters,” he said suddenly, standing. 

Sarek did not try to stop him. 

*****

It was hours later when Spock was roused from a fitful meditation by someone calling at the door. He waited a moment, letting his mind return from the expanse of half-consciousness to settle on a pin of anxiety. 

“Come.”

He was not entirely surprised to see Char’Von standing there as the door slid open. 

“Spock,” she said quietly.

Spock became suddenly aware of his posture, cross-legged on the bed, and stood hastily. 

She stepped in tentatively and approached him, moving until the space between them nearly disappeared. 

For a moment, they stared at each other. Spock reluctantly allowed her emotions to wash over him, a blend of fear and sadness and… something else, something unfamiliar but that he knew would undo all the meditation he’d only just managed. It was like _want_ but somehow both more and less urgent, and it tightened into a knot in his chest and his throat. 

Then Char’Von moved her hand to the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss. 

He’d seen his mother kiss Sarek in a similar fashion, though perhaps not for so long, and perhaps not with such urgency. Unsure of what to do with his hands, Spock threaded them together at the small of Char’Von’s back and listened as this not-quite-want flooded into him, emanating from Char’Von like sunlight. 

When she finally pulled away Spock found that he was disappointed -- another novel, uncomfortable sensation. 

“I’m sorry, Spock,” Char’Von was saying, angling her head downward so he could no longer see her eyes. 

“Sorry…?”

“I’ve caused you so much pain. I never intended to…”

Spock thought about this. He would be lying to say she had not caused him pain, but all the same, with the situation he’d been in…

“Char’Von,” he said. “In the past 36 hours you have saved my life on two separate occasions.”

For a moment, she was perfectly still, then a sob wracked her shoulders and she looked up, her eyes shining. 

“I have to go home now,” she said faintly. 

“I understand,” said Spock. 

For a moment, Char’Von seemed torn between kissing him again, or waiting for him to say something else. She stepped back slightly, and pushed a hand across her face, smearing tears over her cheeks. Her eyebrows knit slightly as she steeled herself. 

“Goodbye, Spock,” she said. 

He watched, frozen to the spot as she left. This time, she turned back and gave him one more look before the door shut behind her, her eyes burning with something still unsaid. 

Spock stood, looking blankly at the smooth expanse of the closed door, for he didn’t know how long. It occurred to him, in some distant part of his mind still bound to that unfailing Vulcan logic, that he should have asked the Romulan whether her mother had been truthful. 

What had stopped him?

At once, Spock rushed toward the sliding door and ran down the hall, out the embassy doors and onto the tarmac.

His father and Setek were already there, watching silently as the bird of prey lifted off, clouds of dust billowing out from under its landing struts. Sarek watched as his son slowed and came to a half-hearted stop beside him, staring as the ship rose into the atmosphere. 

“They are… they are leaving so soon?”

“Yes, Spock. The Doyen has determined that any legitimate threat to the Empire has been neutralized. She is still of the mind that this is an internal Romulan issue, and unfortunately I do not have enough evidence to dispute her assertion.”

“So… what happens now?” Asked Spock, finally tearing his eyes away from the ship, now a distant shape in the sky.

Sarek turned to face his son. His expression was unreadable. 

“Now we go home.”


	10. Chapter 10

Sarek hefted one last bag into the cruiser’s cargo hold. Spock watched him, looking for any minor tick or hesitation that might indicate a change of heart. 

There was none.

“Thank you, Father,” he said, his voice rough. 

Sarek turned to face his son. 

“It is for the best that you leave Vulcan for a time.”

“What about you?”

“My duties are best served here. There is still some… uncertainty… that will require a delicate diplomatic hand.”

Spock nodded. 

It had been weeks since the incident, and Spock had only just given up on receiving a encoded transmission from Char’Von. He’d spent hours recalibrating the frequency pickups of the household comm systems. When his mother had caught him, he’d told her he was practicing for the Academy’s placement exams.

Radio silence from the Empire proper didn’t preclude unrest in the Territories. Two days ago, a Vulcan cruiser had narrowly avoided being shot down in Romulan airspace. 

Spock had no delusions about his father’s sudden enthusiasm for Starfleet Academy. 

*****

“Aren’t the strawberries looking magnificent? I’m so impressed with how they’ve been thriving. The engineers did an incredible job with the irrigation system.”

Spock angled his head, examining the jewel-like berry that his mother had just handed him. “Indeed mother. It is an impressive feat.”

“Taste it. Go on.” Amanda smiled expectantly at her son.

Reluctantly, Spock bit off the tapered part of the berry and chewed contemplatively. 

“It is very sweet.”

Amanda laughed. She was in a charitable mood. “Spock,” she said. “I know that goodbyes aren’t a terribly formal affair with Vulcans. And I know that you’re trying to respect me by pretending this means more to you than it does.” She took up a pair of small shears and began paring branches off a small fig tree. “I appreciate that. I do. But you don’t have to pretend.” 

She turned.

“I’m so proud of you, Spock. And you should know—“ she wrenched off a branch that hadn’t quite cut through, then stepped back. “You should know that your father is proud of you, too.”

Spock was silent. He watched his mother’s gloved hands as they passed delicately over budding fruit.

“Maybe someday he’ll learn to show it.”

“I suppose you will try to teach him.”

She turned to him, one eyebrow raised in a manner that was almost comically like her son. “Oh, Spock. There are things that I can teach your father. But this is something he’s going to have to learn for himself, I’m afraid.”

Spock nodded. “I understand.”

“What time does your shuttle leave?”

“0900 Vulcan standard.”

“That’s soon. Are you ready?”

“I am.” T’Pre’s cruiser would take him to a larger interstellar cargo ship, which had been docked in orbit since yesterday evening.

Amanda nodded. “Well then, Spock.” Her demeanour changed almost imperceptibly— she had learned to hide her emotions very well, but at moments like this Spock couldn’t help but remember that she was not Vulcan — that _he_ was not Vulcan. Her eyes took on a faint shine.

Spock stood as his mother came close and pulled him into an embrace. The last time she’d done so, it had been one of comfort. This time… that human sense of possession undercut the gesture. Spock was her son. No matter what planet he was on.

Spock curled his hands into his mother’s back.

“I’ll miss you, Spock.” She whispered.

“I shall miss you as well, mother.” Spock replied. He could not be certain it was the truth. But his mother had no telepathic abilities. The words would have to be enough. 

*****

T’Pre gave him her usual curt nod as he stood in the airlock. Then the hatch shut, and she was gone. 

Spock stared out at the soft plane of red that cut off the void along a curved horizon line.

He’d run all the simulations, and he was certain Sarek had done the same. Starfleet academy probably was the safest place to be; even if Palix hadn’t survived, the Empire would not risk a war with the Federation as a political cover-up.

The ship’s engines rattled and Spock sat quietly in his quarters, his chest heavy with a debt that he would never get the chance to repay.


End file.
